


Stars Are Shining Brightly

by the_rat_wins



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mickey is such a little menace, Middle School, School Dances, damage to government property
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 06:16:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4380428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rat_wins/pseuds/the_rat_wins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why do you care what I’m doing,” Mickey finally says.</p><p>Ian shrugs. “The dance is stupid.”</p><p>Mickey’s mouth quirks a little.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stars Are Shining Brightly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flazy2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flazy2/gifts).



> Happy birthday, [flazy](http://flazy2.tumblr.com/)! With _two whole hours_ to spare, your time. ;)
> 
> Tbh, without you, I don't think I'd really be in this fandom right now. You were the first person I actually had a conversation with (it was about Mickey's butt, WHO'S SHOCKED, NOT ME), and you were so freaking nice about my fics and just really welcoming and hilarious and stuff.
> 
> Anyway, I think you're fab, and I hope you enjoy this fluff! <3

Ian sits on the bleachers, looking out across the gym. It’s almost dark, except for the strings of Christmas lights hanging from the cardboard palm trees propped up against the walls. There are balloons drifting aimlessly around, bouncing whenever someone accidentally kicks them.

The song that’s playing is loud, and nothing he recognizes, although most of the girls screamed with excitement when it started.

School dances, he decides, aren’t really his thing.

Lip looks like he’s having fun, but that’s because he’s dancing with Carissa Hintzman, and she’s probably going to give him a handjob later. At least, Lip says he thinks he can talk her into it.

There’s no one Ian can dance with—no one he’d want a handjob from after, anyway. And the dancing on its own isn’t very appealing.

He feels stupid and awkward wearing Lip’s old dress shirt. “If you’re goin’ to the dance, then you’re gonna look nice!” Fiona had said. At least he got to keep his sneakers and jeans. (Mostly because he didn’t have anything else that Fiona could make him wear instead.)

Looking aimlessly around the gym, he sees a couple of the Milkoviches gathered around one of the tables with bowls of punch on it. He sees one of the blond ones—Iggy, maybe—sticking a flask back in his pocket.

Spiked punch might make stuff a little more interesting, except that the Milkoviches are fucking assholes, and they probably put something disgusting or poisonous or illegal (or all three) in, not booze.

Technically, only Mandy and Mickey are young enough to even be here. The dance is supposed to be sixth through eighth grade, and the rest of the Milkoviches are in high school. Or they would be, if they actually went to school.

But even the teachers are too fucking scared of them to say anything. Easier to just let them do what they want, and hope they get bored and leave.

Ian looks around for Lip again, hoping he’ll be ready to take a break, go have a smoke or something. Or maybe even leave, so they can do something more fun at home. _Anything_ would be more fun than this.

No dice. Lip’s off getting either snacks or his handjob, because Ian can’t spot him. And by the time he looks back at the drinks table, the Milkoviches have scattered.

Iggy and the other blond one are nowhere in sight. Mandy’s backed some eighth-grade boy into a dark corner of the gym, and it looks like maybe she has her hand down his pants.

Ian sees Mickey slipping through one of the side doors that lead to the rest of the school. The doors are supposed to be locked—no one’s supposed to leave the gym, other than through the main doors out to the parking lot—but either they forgot or the lock wasn’t good enough to stop Mickey.

Without thinking much about it, Ian stands up, and walks down the bleachers. He looks around casually when he gets to the bottom, but everyone else is busy dancing or laughing or spitting their drinks out onto the floor.

Ian walks casually to the side door, and walks through, closing it quietly after him.

The hallway is weird, all silent and dark. He’s never been in the school at night like this. It’s kind of cool, like a ghost town.

At the end of the hall, he can see Mickey disappearing around the corner of one of the back staircases by the art room.

Ian follows, half-jogging after him. It’s dumb. Him and Mickey aren’t friends or anything. It’s just—he’s sick of the stupid dance, and whatever Mickey’s doing is probably cooler.

By the time he makes it to the second floor, Mickey is already halfway down the hall.

“Hey,” Ian calls out. “Mickey! Wait up.”

Mickey stops and turns around, clearly freaked. When he sees it’s just another kid, though, he relaxes. “Gallagher. The fuck are you doing.”

Ian keeps walking, getting closer. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” he says. “I was at the dance. You’re the one creeping around.”

Mickey looks him up and down, sneers at his worn button-down shirt.

Ian flushes, then eyeballs Mickey back, scornfully. He’s wearing a ratty white T-shirt with a winged skull that says AIRBORNE: DEATH FROM ABOVE. The sleeves are cut off raggedly, and Mickey's arms look . . . Whatever. His jeans have a bunch of dark stains on them. It looks like rust and dirt. Or maybe tomato sauce.

The point is, Ian might look stupid, but Mickey looks stupider. Not to mention dirty.

“Why do you care what I’m doing,” Mickey finally says. All his questions sound flat, like he doesn’t actually want an answer.

Ian shrugs. “The dance is stupid.” Mickey’s mouth quirks a little. He turns away from Ian and walks across the hall, to the railing where you can look down and see the first-floor hallway below. The sixth-graders’ lockers are down there.

Mickey hawks up a loogie and spits it over the railing, then watches with satisfaction as it hits the tiles below.

Ian frowns. “You came all the way up here to spit from the second floor?” Mickey turns around slowly, raising his eyebrows.

“You got a problem with that?” he says. “Give it shot, Gallagher, before you fucking knock it.”

“Fine,” Ian says with a shrug, and goes to stand next to Mickey. He feels weirdly self-conscious about hacking up like Mickey did, so he just gathers some spit in his mouth, and then lets it drop.

They stand there together for a second, silent, looking down at the tiles.

“If you spit from the top of the Empire State Building, it goes so fast, it’ll go through someone’s skull, if they’re walking under you,” Ian says.

Mickey scoffs. “Bullshit, Gallagher. That doesn’t even make sense.”

Ian shrugs. Someone told him that once. He doesn’t know if it’s true. It’s probably kind of dumb, now that he thinks about it.

Mickey turns away again, and starts to walk down the hall. Ian hovers uncertainly for a second before Mickey stops and looks at him, annoyed.

“Hurry the fuck up,” he says, and Ian heads after him.

“Where now?” he asks.

Mickey shrugs, looking from side to side at all the classroom doors as they walk down the darkened hallway. He has one hand in his pocket, fiddling with something metal.

Shit. Maybe he’s going to try to burn the school down. Fiona’s going to kill Ian if he gets arrested for arson with Mickey Milkovich. Like, actually kill him. Maybe he should just go back to the dance.

But before he can totally chicken out, Mickey stops in front of one of the social-studies classrooms. Ian doesn’t know which teacher it is, but the look on Mickey’s face tells him enough.

Mickey goes for the door handle, and it swings open. Ian follows him inside.

There’s a bunch of hand-drawn maps hanging on the wall next to the whiteboard, with papers stapled to the top corner. Mickey casually rips a bunch of them down as he goes by, wadding them up and letting them fall to the ground.

“Jesus!” Ian says, kind of shocked, even though it was obvious Mickey picked this room for a reason.

Mickey stops in front of the whiteboard, and takes out the pocketknife he’s been playing with. He steps back and studies the board thoughtfully, like an artist planning his next brushstroke. Then he flips open the knife and carves FUCK YOU in huge, jagged letters.

Ian stands and watches, eyes wide. The knife makes a scraping sound as Mickey digs deep into the board. Little curls of white plastic fall to the ground.

When Mickey’s finally satisfied with his handiwork, he closes the knife and walks over to the teacher’s desk. He takes the pencil cup and dumps it out, poking around until he finds a Sharpie. Then he knocks the rest of the pens and pencils onto the floor, and goes back to the board.

He traces carefully over the words, making sure to grind the ink into every scratch, smashing the tip of the marker hard against the board.

After a minute or two, he takes a step back and admires his masterpiece.

Then he turns to look at Ian, who shrugs. Mickey sneers in response and chucks the marker at the trash can across the room. He misses.

“Whatever,” he mutters, and heads for the door again, with Ian trailing behind.

“That teacher give you an F or something?” Ian asks as Mickey stalks down the hall in front of him.

“Who the fuck hasn’t,” Mickey says, and he actually sounds kind of bitter about it, which Ian wouldn’t have guessed. “It’s a bunch of bullshit, anyway.”

“Probably,” Ian says, even though he’s not sure how he feels about it. Lip does good in school, understands things before the teacher even starts to explain them. He helps Ian sometimes, but he doesn’t understand why stuff doesn’t make sense as quickly to him. Still, Ian thinks he’ll probably do OK next year.

“Yeah, I’m done with this shit,” Mickey says. “Supposed to go to high school next year, but it’s not like that’s gonna go any better.” He stops, apparently noticing that he sounds like he maybe does give a shit, after all. “Anyhow.”

He flips the knife open again, and drags the blade against the white wall as he walks, leaving a shallow scratch trailing behind him.

“Jesus,” Ian says again, and Mickey looks over his shoulder, unimpressed.

“Anyone you want to pay a visit to while we’re here, Gallagher?”

“Nah,” Ian says. “I’m good.”

Mickey shrugs. “Whatever.”

They’re at the top of the main staircase now, facing the big window that looks out across the parking lot. It’s a clear night, and Ian can even see a couple of faint stars, pushing through the city haze and light pollution.

Mickey sits down on the top step, stretching his legs out. He digs around in his pocket and pulls out a pack of smokes and a battered metal lighter.

“You can’t smoke in here,” Ian says without thinking, then snaps his mouth shut.

Mickey twists around to look up at him, and this time he actually laughs. Not even in a mean way. “Chill, Gallagher,” he says, lighting up and taking a drag. “It ain’t like we’re gonna get caught by a fucking hall monitor or whatever.”

Ian rolls his eyes and sits down next to him.

“Give it,” he says, and Mickey offers it to him, looking surprised. Ian blows out the smoke, and watches out of the corner of his eye as Mickey does the same, except through his nose. It’s kind of cool looking.

“Why’d you come to this bullshit, anyway, Gallagher?” Mickey asks after a second. “You ditching some chick downstairs?”

“Nah,” Ian says. “I don’t know. Just went because Lip was, I guess.”

“That’s a shitty reason,” Mickey says. “If I did everything my brothers do, I’d be fucking dead or in juvie or whatever by now.”

“Well, that’s because you’re the smart one,” Ian says.

Mickey turns and stares at him. “The fuck you say?”

“What?” Ian says. “You’re—you’re the smart one, aren’t you? You tell the rest of them what to do all the time.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows.

“‘The smart one.’ Jesus, Gallagher. We’re not a fucking boy band. We don’t have, like, traits you can put on a lunch box.”

“Sorry,” Ian says, annoyed. “I guess you’re not the smart one. You’re—whatever. Forget about it.”

Mickey’s quiet for a second. “Nah,” he says at last. “You’re probably right. I’m the smart one. Iggy’s the stupid one who tries to make jokes. And Joey’s the big dumb one.” He snorts out a laugh. “Mandy’s the Pink Ranger.”

Ian snickers. “Say that to her face,” he says. “I dare you.”

“Oh, hell no. Didn’t you just say I’m the smart one? I like my face the way it is now, thanks, Gallagher.” He shakes his head, taking the last drag and stubbing the cigarette out on the carpet. It smells like burning plastic, and leaves a singed mark. “You’re a bad influence, you know that?”

“Me?” Ian says, kind of offended. “You’re the one damaging government property.”

“Yeah, I guess I am. You gonna turn me in, Scout’s Honor?”

“I’m not a fucking Boy Scout,” Ian says.

“That’s good,” Mickey says. “That shit’s fucking gay.”

Ian freezes, his breath caught in his throat.

Mickey notices, turns to look at him. “What?” he says after a second.

“Nothing,” Ian says, and forces himself to breathe normally again.

Mickey shakes his head, and climbs to his feet. “Come on,” he says, giving Ian a hand up. His palm is warm and dry. “I’m sick of this shit. Going back downstairs, see if that salt in the punch made anyone throw up yet.”

“Fucking _knew it_ ,” Ian says, and pushes Mickey’s shoulder. Mickey socks his arm, and it kind of hurts, but Ian’s grinning, anyway.

“Yeah, well, Iggy wanted to spike it, but fuck that. I’m not wasting alcohol on these dumb fuckers.”

“Good call,” Ian says, and Mickey definitely smiles this time. Not even a smirk. A smile.

“What can I say,” he says, spreading his hands out. “Brains of the operation, right here.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I need to induce vomiting in someone,” Ian says.

Mickey laughs. “You’re a weird one, Gallagher.”

Ian shrugs. “Guess that’s my job in the boy band.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, and glances at him sideways. “Guess so.”

**Author's Note:**

> (Mickey thinks Ian’s the cute one.)
> 
>  
> 
> The title of this fic is from "Truly, Madly, Deeply." The middle-school dance trauma runs deep, guys. To this day, I can't hear that song without cringing.
> 
> *shudder*


End file.
